Business being thus got into a smooth way, Dawson and Arthur became great friends.  Nothing that Dawson said was a specific statement of belief in the ultimate success of the suit; but his every look and tone implied confidence.  Arthur went away with face radiant and spirit erect.  He felt that he was a man of affairs, a man of consequence, he had lawyers, and a big suit pending; and soon he would be rich.  He thought of Janet, and audibly sneered.  “I’ll make the Whitneys sick of their treachery!” said he.  Back had come his sense of strength and superiority; and once more he was “gracious” with servants and with such others of the “peasantry” as happened into or near his homeward path.

Toward three o’clock that afternoon, as he was being whirled toward Saint X in the Eastern Express, his lawyer was in the offices of Ramsay & Vanorden, a rival firm of wreckers and pirate outfitters on the third floor of the same building.  When Dawson had despatched his immediate business with Vanorden, he lingered to say:  “Well, I reckon we’ll soon be lined up on opposite sides in another big suit.”

Confidences between the two firms were frequent and natural—­not only because Vanorden and Dawson were intimate friends and of the greatest assistance each to the other socially and politically; not only because Ramsay and Bischoffsheimer had married sisters; but also, and chiefly, because big lawyers like to have big lawyers opposed to them in a big suit.  For several reasons; for instance, ingenuity on each side prolongs the litigation and makes it intricate, and therefore highly expensive, and so multiplies the extent of the banquet.

“How so?” inquired Vanorden, put on the alert by the significant intonation of his friend.

“The whole Ranger-Whitney business is coming into court.  Ranger, you know, passed over the other day.  He cut his family off with almost nothing—­gave his money to Tecumseh College.  The son’s engaged us to attack the will.”

“Where do we come in?” asked Vanorden.

Dawson laughed and winked.  “I guess your client, old Charley Whitney, won’t miss the chance to intervene in the suit and annex the whole business, in the scrimmage.”

Vanorden nodded.  “Oh, I see,” said he.  “I see!  Yes, we’ll take a hand—­sure!”

“There won’t be much in it for us,” continued Dawson.  “The boy’s got nothing, and between you and me, Len, the chances are against him.  But you fellows and whoever gets the job of defending the college’s rights—­” Dawson opened his arms and made a humorous, huge, in-sweeping gesture.  “And,” he added, “Whitney’s one of the trustees under the will.  See?”

“Thanks, old man.”  Vanorden was laughing like a shrewd and mischievous but through-and-through good-natured boy.  The two brilliant young leaders of the Illinois bar shook hands warmly.

And so it came about that Charles Whitney was soon indorsing a plan to cause, and to profit by, sly confusion—­the plan of his able lawyers.  They had for years steered his hardy craft, now under the flag of peaceful commerce and now under the black banner of the buccaneer.  The best of pilots, they had enabled him to clear many a shoal of bankruptcy, many a reef of indictment.  They served well, for he paid well.